Cocked and Unloaded
by PaperbackWriter11
Summary: One-shot of Tate, who is engaged in a satisfying and yet unsatisfying encounter down in the basement.


A guttural sound escapes from his throat. He slams his palm against the cold, hard wall. The thud of the smack reverberates, releasing a faint echo slightly amplified by the acoustics of the room. Long, slender, and worm-like, his sickly, jaundiced fingers scrape the sandpaper brick, slowly crawling their way together into a tight fist. Deep in the low of his belly, forceful grunts rise, hollering out of his mouth and rushing the concrete floor like soldiers barreling out of a combat helicopter into a covert military operation.

Leaning forward, blonde tresses as frayed and damaged as his soul, brush the wall lightly. His eyes rest uneasily upon the stubby-nailed hand that is maneuvering up and down his shaft at a rhythmic pace. He can feel the roughness of her palm, scales of dry skin grating his sensitive area; but no matter, it gets the job done. Her movements are experienced. Her touch, though tender and strong, is erected on a crumbling foundation of secrecy, degradation, and sordidness.

He studies her closely; not as a charmed lover would, but akin to a researcher who is scrutinizing some protoplasmic entity. Emotionless, he observes the large pores imminently waiting to erupt through her pallor; the weariness that muddles her brown eyes; the tumbleweeds of knots that have taken up nest in her hair. He launches an attack of lazy and disinterested gazes, blind to her wicked desire to please him.

Their ability to tolerate each other has waned throughout their time in the house; the only type of communication they engage in now consists of biting, cruel words and loathsome looks. Her self-serving smiles magnify the undeniable fact that she knows his very weakness and wouldn't give an ounce of thought to wielding it against him. Her smug-filled appearances eat away at him, corroding his synapses with their acidity, brain cell by microscopic brain cell. He shudders when she is at her worst, smutting it up with any letch that will give her an inkling of the attention she so desperately craves. And for the moment, she is smutting it up with this letch.

But it's of no consequence to him. His resolve faded away in the proverbial rear view mirror long ago, leaving the context of his coma-laden existence maddening. He could not be forgiven for his transgressions. Therefore, he could not escape his desperate vices.

Sitting on her knees, she looks up at him, waiting for a cue, but the cataract glaze over his eyes refuses to dissolve. Slowing her movement down, she arches her slender back and sticks her tiny chest out, staring at him seductively—a ghostly animal in heat. Moving closer to his body, she opens her mouth wide, two ashy crescents preparing to engulf him. Through his heavy breath, he is able to muster out a dismissive _"No…no mouth!"_ while shuffling away from her as if she was about to spew venom from her serpent tongue.

Brows furrowed, she looks at him like a petulant child who is thoroughly offended and annoyed. Stationed in silence, awkward tension works its damndest to sinfully fill the space between them. Waiting to hear a half-ass apology that she knows he'll never give, without a word, she silently returns to jerking him off, only this time tugging ever so forcefully—a retaliation tactic. Like many of her juvenile acts, this did not faze him, as he ekes out moans of both pleasure and pain.

The hanging light overhead swings, casting shadow then light, shadow then light. A split-second shadow veils over her face and he is relieved.

Escaping the filthy reality that he is currently in, he gazes up at the moldy ceiling and shuts his eyes. He pictures Violet; not how she is now, but how she used to be. Before all the fuck ups and mucks up.

He pictures them making love. The memory is not one in particular, but an endless loop; carouseling flashes that have been etched into his minds' sacred landscape.

_Him entering into Violet._

_ Her body writhing underneath his. _

_ His tongue soaking her exposed, lucid skin._

_ Her hands taking hold of his shoulders, rustling in his hair, intertwining with his hands. _

The sensation of how they used to be was incredible, and is no less intense even now, when he is resigned to simply imagine it. He can almost feel her soft lips curling up into his ear and murmuring, _"Tate, I love you so much…" _

"_Oh shit, Vi…" _he moans as he begins to climax. Halfway between stark reality and unbridled fantasy, he can feel the hand move faster upon his member, the friction igniting a fevered heat within his loins. He jerks his head back; his eyes roll into the back of his head and a small smile erupts on his face as he releases. He pictures Violet smiling at him. For one second—the absolute briefest of moments—he is awash with ecstasy and peace.

He's left catching his breath while he sinks to the ground with a shaky conscience and dirty fingerprints. With Violet's face still in his mind—only now, the bright smile has turned into a disgusted glance—he guiltily mumbles a weak _"Thanks"_ and begins to sob, inconsolable. She gets up. _"You're welcome, Rambo"_ Hayden says as she slaps Tate on the back and casually walks away.


End file.
